


Let Me Use You

by keithyourpal



Series: Persona 5 a/b/o 'verse [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bullying, Canon Compliant, First Time, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mementos (Persona 5), Oral Sex, Pack Dynamics, Possessive Behavior, Threesome - M/M/M, alpha!Mishima, pack omega!Akira
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-23 20:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keithyourpal/pseuds/keithyourpal
Summary: Kurusu was different from Sakamoto, and not just because he was more reserved. His eyes weren’t kind, or pitying, or disdainful. There was nothing there but simple acknowledgement that Mishima existed. That his pain existed.For whatever reason, an omega like Kurusu was interested in him, and it set off sparks in a part of Mishima that he thought was long gutted out.





	Let Me Use You

If Mishima learned anything in his time at Shujin Academy, it was to listen to Kamoshida without protest or delay. Everyone could see what Sakamoto’s efforts to stand up to the alpha earned him: a busted leg, the scorn of his former teammates, and Kamoshida ending up with even more control than he had before.

So when Kamoshida cornered Mishima on the stairs before homeroom and hissed for him to leak the transfer student’s criminal record, he did it. The way he saw it, even if he said no, Kamoshida would just find someone else to bully into doing his bidding, and all Mishima would get for talking back was extra punishment. He wasn’t an idiot like Sakamoto. 

And, he thought desperately as he posted the incriminating files to the school's message board, a guy with an assault on his record deserved Kamoshida’s wrath anyway, right? More than the volleyball team did, at any rate. Looking over the police report, it was easy to see that the transfer student was bad news. A bad guy. Maybe Kamoshida would be so preoccupied by putting his new target in place that it would give the rest of them some slack. Mishima could only hope.

  


\-----

  


God, that was Mishima’s problem--he thought if he kept his head down he could get through the next two years with a bare minimum of abuse. But there was no appeasing someone like Kamoshida, who beat down defiance and demanded obedience, only to then sneer at it for being proof of the weakness he saw in everyone beneath him. 

And the one thing Kamoshida hated more than weaklings like Mishima or idiots like Sakamoto were mavericks like the transfer student. 

Kurusu was either too brave or too oblivious to be concerned with the social climate at Shuujin, to care that his reputation was ruined before he even took his first belated step in the classroom. Just by showing up late on his first day, with Sakamoto of all people, he managed to spit in the face of all the warnings from Kawakami-sensei and validate the gossip stirred along by their classmates. He was a criminal, so far gone that no amount of warnings or threats could affect him.

And all that did was make Kamoshida run the team more ragged at practice than ever the next few weeks, lashing out from what he couldn’t control onto what he could. Kurusu was the nail that wouldn’t be hammered down.

As Mishima rode the train home after practice at the end of the week, wincing with every jostle along the tracks, he could only think of how much he’d fucking hate Kurusu, if he had any energy left to care.

  


\-----

  


“We wanna help,” Sakamoto said, earnest and self-righteous as ever. He didn't seem to care that he'd ruined not only his own life, but everyone else's, because if he did he'd have a change of heart, and dye his hair black, and fade into the background. He really never learned anything.

“Help?” Mishima repeated dully, thinking of the lump forming on the back of his head, his swollen wrist that made it hard to take notes in class, the bruises on the back on his arm. All courtesy of their “help” so far. Kamoshida’s lust for control and cruelty had reached new heights in the past few days, and no one bore the brunt of it more than Mishima.

“That’s what I said, man. We know Kamoshida’s been abusing the volleyball team.”

Sakamoto said it all proud, as it was any secret why the volleyball team limped around the school in bandages like it was part of their uniform. The thing was, everyone knew. The thing was, it didn’t change anything. It never would. 

If Mishima was a beta, maybe he'd have an excuse for being such a pathetic, talentless waste. If he was an omega, maybe Kamoshida would pretend to be nice while hurting him, the way he did to Suzui. Or maybe it wouldn't make a difference either way. All Mishima knew was that Kamoshida hated other alphas to begin with, and Mishima being a small uncoordinated loser on top of that drove him nuts. 

There was something almost . . . almost sexual about his hatred. Kamoshida had an Olympic medal to his name, and yet nothing got him as hot and bothered like constantly rubbing in his superiority to a nobody like Mishima. All Mishima wanted was to be left alone, to disappear, yet Kamoshida and now Sakamoto had staked opposing interests in him and wouldn't stop fighting with him in the middle.

And then there was Kurusu.

Kurusu, who always stood a little ways behind Sakamoto, looking like a flunkie. He was quiet. Rumor had it that the quiet ones were always the most dangerous when they finally snapped, that brutality simmered under the lid of his silence. The only time Mishima had ever heard him speak was when introducing himself on his first day, and on the rare occasions he was called on in class. 

Contrary to the rumors, he was smart, always able to give correct answers no matter the subject, no matter if he was called on while propping his head up sleepily on the desk or doodling ugly little cats in the margin of his notes.

Kurusu was different from Sakamoto, and not just because he was more reserved. His eyes weren’t kind, or pitying, or disdainful. There was nothing there but simple acknowledgement that Mishima existed. That his pain existed.

Despite his fear, Mishima wanted to trust him.

As much as it humiliated him to have an omega like Kurusu stand up for him against Kamoshida, at the same time it made him feel good. Relieved. For whatever reason, an omega like Kurusu was interested in him, and it set off sparks in a part of him that he thought was long gutted out.

He let Kurusu's scent wash over him and felt the plea on the tip of his tongue threaten to break free. He wanted help. More than that, he wanted Kurusu.

But then his skin began to crawl, instinct and habit anticipating Kamoshida's approach, and he shut it all down. “L-leave me alone,” he said, unable to dredge up the commanding alpha tone that should be as natural to him as breathing. He’d given up on hoping for control, for freedom, long before Kurusu’s sweet scent ever tried to trick him into believing that he was worth saving.

“Is he forcing you to keep quiet?” Sakamoto asked.

Before Mishima could say anything else, Kamoshida’s booming voice rang out behind him. “What’s going on here? Mishima, isn’t it time for practice?”

Mishima wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. He knew faking sick wouldn't get Kamoshida to let him go, he _knew_ it was just another opening the older alpha would take advantage of. When Sakamoto got in Kamoshida’s face to defend him, Mishima wished he would shut up. He didn’t ask for Sakamoto’ help. He didn’t want it.

Then, Kurusu said in his soft, velvety way, “You have an amazing spike.”

Mishima’s eyes were drawn to Kamoshida first, horrified as he saw the older alpha flush an ugly purple at being taunted by an omega. Sakamoto and Kurusu weren’t just making things harder for Mishima now--they were going to fuck themselves over if they didn’t shut up and leave Kamoshida alone.

Kurusu was playing a dangerous, stupid game.

“Get with the program,” Kamoshida barked, and what could Mishima do but obey?

“Yes, sir,” he said miserably and shuffled off to the gym.

  


\-----

  


The incident with Suzui was all his fault.

More than anyone else, he should have known what Kamoshida’s real intention was in asking for him to send an omega, a _girl_ , to his office so close to the end of practice. But Mishima was so eager to deflect attention from himself, to just obey as a means of self-protection, that he let himself ignore Suzui’s situation, her own pain, and now she was in a coma.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Kurusu assured him, almost drowned out by Mishima's sniffling. The guilt from Suzui’s attempted suicide, Kamoshida’s threat of expulsion--Mishima would still be on his knees in the PE faculty office if Kurusu and Sakamoto hadn’t carried him out to the vending machine. 

What did Kurusu know? He was just a delinquent, a wrench in the cogs of Kamoshida’s machinations. Everything was awful but predictable, bearable before he came along, so when he tried to press a canned drink into Mishima’s hand, Mishima smacked it aside and burst into hot, angry tears.

“F-fuck you!” he hiccuped into his knees. “And y-you too, Sakamoto!”

“Hey, man, we’re just trying to help!” Sakamoto said angrily, his lame leg crossed behind the other one, rubbing the back of his ankle. The blood had drained from his face, leaving him sallow, almost green. Too late he realized what an utter mess he'd made. “We can fix this! We have to fix this.”

He looked helplessly to Kurusu, who picked up the dented can and brushed flecks of gravel off it before cracking it open. Fizz hissed and bubbled over his fingers. He sat next to Mishima and held it out for him again.

“Yuuki,” he said, little more than a whisper, and Mishima’s whimpering ceased instantaneously. His gut was still spasming from the dread and anxiety, and his hands felt colder than the can, but Akira’s rich scent was laden with calm, with a confidence that Mishima had never had about anything, much less himself. He latched onto it like a lifeline, and noticed with surprise that his own scent calmed in response, the fear ebbing away.

Sakamoto watched them, nostrils flaring in interest. It wouldn’t do him much good. Though betas weren’t immune to scent bonding, they weren’t as attuned, weren’t physically capable of picking up on all the nuances a person’s scent could have. How it could indicate their designation, their mood, whether they were mated. He couldn’t know that Akira smelled like the gentle bite of dark chocolate and chai, sweetness tempered by a bitter aftertaste, how it prickled Mishima’s nose in an almost taunting way.

He forced himself to take a long swallow of the drink, grimacing as the syrupy taste and carbonation drowned out the subtleties he’d been focused on picking out in Kurusu’s scent, making him smell just like any other omega, the way he must smell to Sakamoto.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “I-I’m . . . I’m sorry. About.” He was sorry about everything, really. Sorry about existing, if he was honest.

“Don’t be,” Kurusu said, his thin fingers cool and soothing at the back Mishima's neck. “We’re going to take care of this. Trust me.”

  


\-----

  


Even after Kamoshida’s confession, Mishima still felt anxious when he walked through school, as if any second the older alpha would come strolling around a corner like always and make a snide remark if he noticed Mishima was there. Old habits die hard, he supposed. 

Kamoshida's ghost still walked the halls, echoing in the hushed conversations of _I always knew there was something wrong_ by students and teachers who turned a blind eye anyway.

The Phantom Thieves were not a coincidence, or random saviors. Mishima knew as he gripped one of the calling cards in his hands, tears dripping onto its crude, vulgar message, that this was Kurusu’s doing, that the omega had kept his promise.

Mishima paid more careful attention to him in class, sneaking glances during lectures while the teachers droned on. Looking at him now, as himself and not as “the transfer student” or a delinquent, Mishima was startled by how attractive Akira was underneath the dorky glasses and the frumpy hairstyle. 

He could be a model, if he wanted to. Not like Ann. The kind like in the dirty magazines Mishima guiltily jerked off to at night, the kind where omegas showed off their tits and asses in provocative lingerie, all for the insatiable pleasure of desperate beta and alpha readers.

The kind who were unattainable in their physical beauty, because no one actually looked like that in real life. No one Mishima had ever seen, until he saw Akira.

Akira had the naturally coy, teasing smile for it, like he was constantly laughing on the inside at the world around him, completely free and confident. Before Kamoshida's downfall, it seemed mocking. Now it made Mishima's chest seize up and his cock twitch just from imagining what Akira would look like naked and writhing in pleasure. Fuck, he wanted to know. 

He wanted to know what Akira smelled like in heat, what he looked like stuffed full of cock, what he’d feel like spread open on Mishima's knot. The magazines stopped giving him any of the half-satisfaction they used to. All he craved now was Akira.

**Author's Note:**

> Mishima was one of my favorite characters in P5. Yeah, he was kind of annoying, but that was part of his appeal. It felt like a realistic reaction to having something give you self-confidence after being bullied for so long, and his Shadow resolving itself without a fight was really neat.


End file.
